p&c.brimstone-第54部分

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　The　gravediggers　climbed　out；　waiting　while　the　photographer　crouched　at　the　edge　and　snapped　a　few　shots　from　various　angles。　Then　they　climbed　back　in；　uncoiled　a　set　of　nylon　straps；　slipped　them　under　the　coffin；　and　gathered　them　together　on　top。　
　〃Okay。　Lift。〃　
　The　medics　pitched　in。　Soon　the　four　had　hoisted　the　coffin　out　of　the　hole　and　set　it　on　the　free　tarp。　There　was　a　powerful　smell　of　earth。　
　〃Open　it；〃　said　the　cop；　a　man　of　few　words。　
　〃Here？〃　D'Agosta　asked。　
　〃Those　are　the　rules。　Just　to　check　and　make　sure。〃　
　〃Make　sure　of　what？〃　
　〃Age；　sex；　general　condition　。　。　。　And　most　importantly；　if　there's　a　body　in　there　at　all。〃　
　〃Right。〃　
　One　of　the　workers　turned　to　D'Agosta。　〃It　happens。　Last　year　we　dug　up　a　stiff　over　in　Pelham；　and　you　know　what　we　found？〃　
　〃What？〃　D'Agosta　was　fairly　sure　he　didn't　want　to　know。　
　〃Twostiffs…and　a　dead　monkey！　We　said　it　must've　been　an　organ…grinder　who　got　mixed　up　with　the　Mafia。〃　He　barked　with　laughter　and　nudged　his　friend；　who　laughed　in　turn。　
　The　workers　now　began　to　attack　the　lid　of　the　coffin；　tapping　around　it　with　chisels。　The　wood　was　so　rotten　it　quickly　broke　loose。　As　the　lid　was　set　aside；　a　stench　of　rot；　mold；　and　formaldehyde　welled　up。　D'Agosta　peered　forward；　morbid　curiosity　struggling　with　the　queasiness　he　never　seemed　fully　able　to　shake。　
　Gray　light；　softened　by　the　misting　rain；　penetrated　the　coffin　and　illuminated　the　corpse。　
　It　lay；　hands　folded　on　its　chest；　upon　a　bed　of　rotting　fabric；　stuffing　ing　up；　with　a　huge　stain　of　congealed　liquid；　dark　as　old　coffee；　covering　the　bottom。　The　body　had　collapsed　from　rot　and　had　a　deflated　appearance；　as　if　all　the　air　had　escaped　along　with　life；　leaving　nothing　but　a　skin　lying　over　bones。　Various　bony　protuberances　stuck　through　the　rotting　black　suit：　knees；　elbows；　pelvis。　The　hands　were　brown　and　slimy；　shedding　their　nails；　the　finger　bones　poking　through　the　rotting　ends。　The　eyes　were　sunken　holes；　the　lips　lopsided　and　drawn　back　in　a　kind　of　snarl。　Beckmann　had　been　a　wet　corpse；　and　the　rain　was　making　him　wetter。　
　The　cop　bent　down；　scanning　the　body。　〃Male　Caucasian；　about　fifty　。　。　。〃　He　opened　a　tape　measure。　〃Six　feet　even；　brown　hair。〃　He　straightened　up　again。　〃Gross　match　seems　okay。〃　
　Gross　is　right；　D'Agosta　thought　as　he　looked　at　Pendergast。　Despite　the　appalling　decay；　one　thing　was　immediately　clear：　this　corpse　had　not　suffered　the　ghastly；　violent　fate　that　met　Grove　and　Cutforth。　
　〃Take　him　to　the　morgue；〃　Pendergast　murmured。　
　The　cop　looked　at　him。　
　〃I　want　a　plete　autopsy；〃　Pendergast　said。　〃I　want　to　know　how　this　manreally　died。〃　
　　　
　41　
　
　Bryce　Harriman　entered　the　office　of　Rupert　Ritts；　managingeditor　of　thePost　；　to　find　the　mean；　rodentlike　editor　standing　behind　his　enormous　desk；　a　rare　smile　splitting　his　bladelike　face。　
　〃Bryce；　my　man！　Take　a　seat！〃　
　Ritts　never　talked　quietly：　his　voice　was　high；　and　it　cut　right　through　a　person。　You　might　think　he　was　deaf；　except　that　his　ferretlike　ears　seemed　to　pick　up　the　faintest　whisper　from　the　farthest　corner；　especially　when　it　concerned　him。　More　than　one　editor　had　been　fired　for　whispering　Ritts's　nickname　from　two　hundred　yards　across　a　busy　newsroom。　It　was　an　obvious　nickname；　just　the　substitution　of　one　vowel　for　another；　but　it　really　got　Ritts　going。　Harriman　figured　it　was　because　he'd　probably　been　called　that　as　a　child　on　the　playground　every　day　and　never　forgot　it。　Harriman　disliked　Ritts；　as　he　disliked　almost　everything　about　theNew　York　Post　。　It　was　embarrassing；　physically　embarrassing；　to　be　working　here。　
　He　adjusted　his　tie　as　he　tried　to　make　himself　fortable　in　the　hard　wooden　chair　Ritts　tortured　his　reporters　with。　The　editor　came　around　and　seated　himself　on　the　edge　of　the　desk；　lighting　up　a　Lucky　Strike。　He　no　doubt　thought　of　himself　as　a　tough　guy　of　the　old　school：　hard…drinking；　tough…talking；　cigarette…hanging…off…the…lip　kind　of　guy。　The　fact　that　smoking　on　the　job　was　now　illegal　seemed　to　make　him　enjoy　it　all　the　more。　Harriman　suspected　he　also　kept　a　cheap　bottle　of　whiskey　and　a　shot　glass　in　a　desk　drawer。　Black　polyester　pants；　scuffed　brown　shoes；　blue　socks；　Flatbush　accent。　Ritts　was　everything　that　Harriman's　family　had　trained　him　all　his　life；　sent　him　to　private　school；　given　him　an　Ivy　League　education；　never　to　be。　
　And　here　he　was。　Harriman's　boss。　
　〃This　Menck　story　is　fabulous；　Harriman。　Fucking　fabulous。〃　
　〃Thank　you；　sir。〃　
　〃It　was　a　real　stroke　of　genius；　Harriman；　finding　this　guy　the　day　before　he　left　for　the　Virgin　Islands。〃　
　〃Galápagos。〃　
　〃Whatever。　I　have　to　tell　you；　when　I　first　read　your　piece；　I　had　my　doubts。　It　struck　me　as　a　lot　of　New　Age　bullshit。　But　it　really　hit　a　chord　with　our　readers。　Newsstand　circ's　up　eight　percent。〃　
　〃That's　great。〃　Here　at　thePost；　it　was　all　about　circulation。　In　the　newsroom　of　theTimes　；　where　he　used　to　work；　〃circulation〃　had　been　a　dirty　word。　
　〃Great？　It's　fucking　fabulous。　That's　what　reporting　is　all　about。　Readers。　I　wish　some　of　these　other　jokers　around　here　would　realize　that。〃　
　The　piercing　voice　was　cutting　a　wide　swath　across　the　newsroom　beyond。　Harriman　squirmed　unfortably　in　the　wooden　seat。　
　〃Just　when　the　devil…killings　story　was　flagging；　you　find　this　guy　Menck。　I　have　to　hand　it　to　you。　Every　other　paper　in　town　was　sitting　around　with　their　thumbs　up　their　asses；　waiting　for　the　next　killing；　but　you…you　went　out　andmade　the　news。〃　
　〃Thank　you；　sir。〃　
　Ritts　sucked　in　a　few　quarts　of　smoke　and　dropped　the　cigarette　on　the　floor　of　his　office；　grinding　it　in　with　his　toe；　where　about　twenty　others　lay；　all　nicely　flattened。　He　exhaled　with　a　noisy；　emphysemic　whistle。　He　lit　another；　looked　up　at　Harriman；　eyed　him　up　and　down。　
　Harriman　shifted　again　in　his　chair。　Was　there　something　wrong　with　the　way　he　was　dressed？　Of　course　not：　it　was　one　of　those　things　he'd　been　schooled　in　from　day　one。　He　knew　just　when　to　break　out　the　madras；　when　to　put　away　the　seersucker；　knew　the　acceptable　shade　of　cordovan　for　tasseled　loafers。　And　anyway；　Ritts　was　the　last　person　who　could　criticize　anyone　else's　taste　in　clothes。　
　〃TheNational　Enquirer　's　picked　up　the　story；USA　Today　；Regis；Good　Day　New　York。I　like　the　feel　of　this；　Harriman。　You've　done　well。　In　fact；　well　enough　to　make　you　a　special　correspondent　at　the　crime　desk。〃　
　Harriman　was　astonished。　He　hadn't　expected　this。　He　tried　to　control　his　facial　muscles：　he　didn't　want　to　be　seen　grinning　like　an　idiot；　especially　to　Ritts。　He　nodded　his　head。　〃Thank　you　very　much；　Mr。　Ritts。　I　really　appreciate　it。〃　
　〃Any　reporter　that　pushes　the　circ　up　eight　percent　in　a　week　is　gonna　get　noticed。　It　es　with　a　ten…thousand…dollar　raise；　effective　immediately。〃　
　〃Thank　you　again。〃　
　The　managing　editor　seemed　to　be　observing　Harriman　with　ill…concealed　amusement；　looking　him　up　and　down　again；　eyes　lingering　on　his　tie；　his　striped　shirt；　his　shoes。　〃Listen；　Harriman；　as　I　said；　your　story　touched　a　chord。　Thanks　to　you；　a　bunch　of　New　Agers　and　doomsday　freaks　have　started　congregating　in　the　park　in　front　of　Cutforth's　building。〃　
　Harriman　nodded。　
　〃It's　nothing　much。　Yet。　They're　gathering　spontaneously；　lighting　candles；　chanting。　Flying　Nun　kind　of　shit。　What　we　need　is　follow…up。　First；　a　story　about　these　guys；　a　serious　story；　a　respectful　story。　A　story　that'll　let　all　the　other　freaks　know　there's　a　daily　gathering　they're　missing　out　on。　If　we　handle　this　right；　we　could　build　up　quite　a　crowd　up　there。　We　could　stimulate　some　TV　coverage。　Who　knows；　there　might　even　be　demonstrations。　See　what　I'm　getting　at？　Like　I　said：　here　at　thePost　；　we　don't　sit　around　waiting　for　news　to　happen；　we　go　out　andmake　it　happen。〃　
　〃Yes；　Mr。　Ritts。〃　
　Ritts　lit　up　again。　〃Can　I　give　you　some　friendly　advice？　Just　between　you　and　me。〃　
　〃Sure。〃　
　〃Lose　the　repp　ties　and　the　penny　loafers。　You　look　like　a　goddamnTimes　reporter。　This　is　thePost。　This　is　where　the　excitement　is。　You　sure　as　hell　don't　want　to　be　back　with　those　ass…puckered　types　over　there；　do　you？　Now；　go　on　out　and　talk　to　every　nut　who's